


Gunpowder and Whiskey

by LuxaLucifer



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood, Explicit Language, M/M, Mild Gore, death but also respawn, kissin and gay things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxaLucifer/pseuds/LuxaLucifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun rises and sets and he's still bleeding. He's hoping someone will come for him. He's hoping that someone is Tavish DeGroot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunpowder and Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a foray into tf2, I hope it's decent. Just wanted to put a little more Sniper/Demo into the world.

There's something about dying that really pisses him off. He lets himself mouth swear words at the ceiling of his trailer because there's nothing else to do, and being pissed off is preferable to thinking about the pain and the blood and how if he reaches down he can tug on his intestines. If he were so inclined to waste the energy he could sit up and have a look at the guts spilling out of his stomach, but he's not, and besides, why bother? He knows what it looks like, even if he's never seen it in himself before. No, this is his first time getting shot like this, or at least the first that he was conscious for. With Respawn it all runs together.

Respawn is a dream now, some far off wish that he desperately wants to grab out and take, because he is so close to being healthy and alive again if only he could die. Instead he's counting the stains and seeing how many curses he's picked up from his foreign companions. Companions, that word sounds so kind considering he's referring to the other ruthless mercenaries he works with. Well, no matter. No bloody matter.

He's rambling now, even if he isn't talking out loud. He's starting to bore himself, and damn if that isn't just sad.

The sun rises and sets and he's still bleeding. It's a trickle now, though, never quite enough to let him close his eyes for what his body thinks will be a final time. What if he dies of dehydration? The idea is sobering, or it would be if he had any alcohol in him. Instead it makes him even angrier. He's only a few feet from his sink and he can't get to it.

When he takes a breath there's a sharp pain in his abdomen. It's not like he hasn't been in pain before, especially considering that he's died a dozen times in the past month alone. No, he knows better than anyone what death feels like…but he's never had to suffer with it for so long. He admits to himself that he might be crying if he wasn't so bloody dehydrated.

It's depressing that no one's come to check on him. Is he really that reclusive?

He knows the answer to that. He'd laugh if he had the energy for it. He'd do a lot of bloody things if he had the energy for it. Like move at all.

He knows Soldier won't come. The piker barely knows he exists except when he shoots the head off of a man he was trying to bludgeon. Pyro barely knows anyone exists, Heavy can never find where he parks his campervan even with directions, Engineer and Medic are too busy with their constant experiments to think more into his disappearance, and Scout probably hasn't even realized he's been gone. Spy…he would have thought Spy would be here by now. They were friends, or so he thought. Lying here dying when that wanker could track down a flying kangaroo made him wonder.

He shuts his eyes, wondering where the person he wants to think about least is. The Demoman. He's not surprised he isn't here, not after that argument. Not after the things Sniper last said to him.

He doesn't open them, not even when the smell hits him. Have his intestines begun to rot or something? He doesn't know why they'd smell like that, though, like someone just dumped a barrel of whiskey into his open wounds.

Whiskey. He opens his eyes. About ten inches from his face is the one eye of the Demoman. Shocked, he instinctively moves up, cracking his head together with Demo's.

"Bloody careful!" yells Demo.

"Sorry, mate!"

Demo sits back on the floor of the campervan, rubbing his now red forehead. "I come all the way out here for ya and then ye crack me in the skull!"

"Tav," he says. "Cheers."

He lets his head drop back to the floor despite how good it is to see Tavish DeGroot across from him. Pain explodes in his insides, reminded him what a bad spot he's gotten himself into.

Demo pauses as he sits back on his haunches, balancing his drunken self against a cupboard with one hand. "What have you gotten yourself into now, Mundy?"

"Get me out of it," he says, swallowing several times to try and get the rasp out of his voice. "Please. I'm beggin ya here."

He can smell more than whiskey on Demo, an underlying combination of gunpowder and the shampoo he uses hitting his nose. He should hate it. He doesn't. He doesn't know why he's thinking about it either, since Tav's fingers are spiking agony through his spinal column as he tries to stuff his guts back inside him.

"No use," he grunts. "Just finish me off. Please, Tav."

He wonders if Demo will find any joy in slitting his throat after the argument they had. He wonders more briefly if Demo will even give him that mercy. He regrets the thought a moment later, catching sight of Demo's agonized expression through the haze of sweat and exhaustion that clouds his thoughts.

"'M sorry," he says, and Mick Mundy thinks that Tavish DeGroot has nothing to be sorry for as he slits the Sniper's throat, finally letting him forget the pain.

* * *

"All better now! How do you feel?"

"Right chuffed," is his short, sarcastic reply.

The doctor tsks at him. "You are so gloomy after Respawn, I do not understand it! Look around and smell the roses, mein Freund."

Sniper hops off the table, pulling his shirt down and adjusting his vest. "Thanks for watching me come back to life or whatever it is you do. I've got to take care of things now."

He passes Spy on the way out, still unconscious. That would explain why he hasn't come looking for him. He's been busy. Relieved that his friend hadn't been ignoring him, his mood takes a sharp turn downwards when he thinks about Tav. He was so delirious back in the campervan that he hadn't been able to properly think.

That's where he's heading now. He has bloodstains to clean, smells to disinfect. If his camper is to be in any way inhabitable by their next fight, he has work to do.

The desert is in rare form. He covers his eyes with his hand as the wind blows sand around, the setting sun causing coloration in the sky that spans their whole base, sending waves of deep pinks and yellows so pastel they belonged in a sunset calendar. They did say desert skies were the sweetest. Sniper would tend to agree, but he's from the desert, born and bred, if a different one. Sometimes he thinks that the world is meant to be desert and should be, if only he can find some way to get rid of the green in-between them, but he knows that if he told anyone that they'd only laugh at him.

Demo is waiting in front of his campervan, a weapon and a bottle at his side. He's polishing off the former and polishing off the latter, his arse fully settled in the sand.

"What're you doin' here?" he asks, saying it like it's just a fact rather than a question so hot it's threatening to burn him up inside.

"Making sure yer okay."

"Course I'm okay," he grunts. "'M always okay."

"Don't bloody lie to me," is the Scotsman's reply. "You're not bloody okay when I find you bleeding out on the floor! You're not bloody okay when I find yer gory corpse writhing on the old tile, are ye?"

"Corpses don't writhe," he says, pushing past him to get inside.

He sighs when he sees the spotless floor, the clear counters. Tav cleaned up for him, and in doing so, robbed him of the busy work he's been relying on to keep himself preoccupied. He stands there for a moment, defeated.

He can hear Tavish behind him, wanting to come in but simply not finding the room with the lanky Australian in front of him.

Sniper decides to hell with it all and steps aside to let the other man in. The space is cramped, not meant for two people. He's never cared before now, though. On the rare off-chance he wants company, this is where he defaults to. It's shabby, but no one seems to care. Well, except the spook. He never stops trying to dust when he visits.

Demo walks in, stopping to pull his vest strapped with bombs off and set it, Sniper watching nervously, on his counter before they did anything. Quite a gesture.

"How'd'ya end up here, bleeding out in the camper?"

"Drove it to the fight. Got involved." A way to put it. "Ran into you. Got frustrated." Another way to put it. "Used my van as cover. Stupid idea. Got shot, drove back, passed out, woke up with my intestines hanging out my stomach."

"You were that bloody twisted up about our spat?"

"And you weren't?"

Demo sighs, his hands conspicuously empty without a bottle in them. "Naw. I mean, yeah, but it wasn't really about the sniping spot, was it?"

The whole thing was stupid and Sniper knows it. Demo had been behind him and he hadn't known it, so when the bomb bounced past his feet and erupted on the top of an enemy's head, he hadn't expected the rounds of fire to ratchet off the walls around him, aiming to knock off his head. He'd grabbed Demo by the collar and they'd had it out, their argument turning from civil to dangerous in a manner of seconds.

"I know I messed up," Tav adds. "But there ain't no use crying over spilled milk, or I thought. It was a goddamn tactical mistake."

"Yeah, I know," he replies finally. "It wasn't about the spot."

Tavish doesn't reply instantly, which leaves him in an awkward place. He's used to it. He coughs into his sleeve, glancing out the window to see that the sunset's beauty is gone, as fleeting as every fancy poet writing down words with tears pricking their eyes has said. Prick certainly is a word that can be used to describe poets, but he likes the description anyway.

"What is this, Tav?" he asks finally. "We gotta air it all out, I can't take this tiptoeing shit anymore. We ain't a couple of schoolgirls with crushes."

He hadn't meant to cut to the quick so fast, but he's almost glad he does when Tavish actually blushes. "Are ya saying-"

"Mate, I'm not saying a damn thing except that you and I've been givin' each other looks when we think the other ain't looking."

His heart is pounding fast now. This morning he was lying dying on the floor and right now he kind of wishes he was back there now. The idea that Medic replaced his arteries with something faster, like a bird's heart, crosses his mind briefly, but he figures he would have thought that out before now.

"That's a pretty big thing you're still saying," is Tavish's reply. "What do you want, Mick?"

It's the use of his first name that stops the jitters, funny enough. He squares his jaw, stroking his chin for a moment as he thinks over his next action. "You," is his reply. "I want you, and all that means."

The kiss is crushing, full of that gunpowder and whiskey smell that's all Tavish's, his stubble brushing against Tavish's facial hair, chins bumping into each other ungraciously as the two men let their hands fly to each other's hair, Sniper pulling the beanie off as Tav dispenses with his hat, their fingers tangled like their tongues.

When they separate they're both panting, Sniper avoiding eye contact for a brief moment before remembering that they're putting an end to that kind of bollocks today. He raises his gaze, breaking out in a sheepish grin when he sees the exuberant smile awaiting him.

"This is good," he blurts out. "I like this."

"You bloody idiot," says Demo, and Sniper isn't sure if he's talking about Mick or himself. "You damn bloody idiot! What took you so long!"

Sniper rests his cheek against Demo's, their chests pressed so close to each other he can hear their hearts beat. How many times have they stopped that steady thumping in this endless war against their counterparts? How many times will they in the future?

"You know how hard it was to walk in on you bleeding out on the floor, you daft rocket?"

Mick doesn't reply, pressing his lips to Tavish's jaw, once, twice, then again and again as he peppers his neck with kisses. He smiles against his throat when he feels Tav swallow hard.

"I had to kill you," he whispers. Sniper can feel the tremor travel up his throat from the inside.

"I know," he replies, because what can he say to that, really? "Thank you."

"It's the last thing I wanna do to ya, you know that right? The last thing."

"And what's the first thing?" His voice is low and deep now, coarse against his vocal cords now, and he wonders if he's imagining Tavish shiver against him.

"I think you can guess."

As he guides Tavish back towards his cramped bed, kissing him all the while, he shuts his eyes for a moment and is more than happy with the activity he's found to distract himself.


End file.
